The Box

There’s the pain that you feel and the pain that you see.

I went back to work the next day, my arm in its cast and my blue sling draped across my chest. I caused quite the stir when I walked in before the store opened, with everyone making a fuss over the injury and wanting to hear the story again and again. But they had absolutely no idea of the pain I felt inside, an aching inside my heart that wasn’t about to heal anytime soon.

It was decided that with only one good arm, I wasn’t much use at re-shelving duties. It was also evident that I wasn’t going to be able to slide books into bags, a two-handed task if ever there was one. This is how I ended up with the dreaded duty: info desk.

To customers, the information desk is a gleaming beacon in the middle of the store, a monument to the advanced power of computer searches and bookstore employee knowledge to find what you’re looking for. For example, the customer asking for “that funny book by that guy on that show on NPR on Saturdays” combines employee knowledge (David Sedaris often appears on “This American Life” on Saturday afternoons), and a search of the computer for a list of his works. It tells you that Me Talk Pretty One Day can be found in both literature and humor, while Holidays on Ice can actually be spotted in our special, two-months-to-Christmas, rushing-the-holidays display in the middle aisle. A little added knowledge can also lead the customer to the latest issue of the New Yorker, which features an essay by Mr. Sedaris.

To employees, the info desk is a nightmare of moronic inquiries and complaints. During the first half hour this morning, I was subjected to the following questions:
• “Where is that novel that Oprah wrote?”
• “Why doesn’t Howard Stern have a cookbook?”
• “Who can I complain to about the coffee from the latte stand? I burned my mouth on it because it’s too hot.”
• “Do you have any hard-backed books with red covers? I want to decorate my living room with them.”
• “Where are my socks?” Yes, this was an actual question. When I asked what he meant by that, he replied, “You are an information desk, aren’t you? Where are my socks?”

The info desk employee also gets to answer the phone, which presents questions like:
• “Are you open?” Yes. “What time did you open this morning?” 10AM, sir, and we’re open until 10PM. “I didn’t ask how late you were open. I asked what time you opened. Pay attention.” Silly me, I thought the closing information would have been more useful at this point in the day.
• “If I buy a burrito at the shop next door, can I bring it into the bookstore so I can read while I eat?” Sure, and why don't you just smear salsa all over whatever book you want to read.
• “Can you recommend a book for an intellectually advanced newborn? I want to make sure she’s reading at her proper level.” Uh, newborn's can't read. "Maybe not the newborns you know, but I assure you, mine is different. She'll be going to Yale." Great.

Adding to the joy, the desk-worker can’t abandon her post to use the restroom or, say, wash her hands. Rummaging through the cabinets below, I see a half-used bottle of antibacterial hand lotion. A-ha! Someone else has my germ fixation, too. I felt better as a result of the revelation, and more stable as a result of the germ killing power. Even better, the lotion seems to work better than worrying about keeping the cast dry during handwashing.

By 1PM, I’ve reached the outer limits of my patience for humanity, and fortunately it’s time for my lunch break. I don't actually eat at lunchtime. I can't handle ramen noodles twice a day, so it's easier to save them for dinner. I would desperately love to peruse the shelves during my downtime – even employees find hidden gems when they have the time to look for them – but I know that I’ll never be off-duty while dressed in the store’s polo. So I resign myself to a walk outside.

The rains from yesterday have cleared, and we’re left with a crisp, cool autumn day, with dead leaves skidding across the parking lot. My cardigan is still drying on the radiator in my apartment, so I’m left with an oversized sweatshirt jacket with a broken zipper. I wrap the jacket across my bad arm and tuck it into the shoulder strap of the sling; the other arm wraps around like a straightjacket. Further circumstantial proof that I’m insane, as though I really needed it.

I walk to the small grocery store on the other side of the lot. I didn’t bring any money with me, for obvious reasons, but sometimes they give out free samples of yummy stuff. It’s the only reason to go there, especially when you’re living on my ramen noodle budget.

Today I got to sample unfiltered apple cider that reminded me of going to the orchard when I was a kid, and pumpkin spice bread. The old woman who was distributing samples was generous with her servings, and when she wasn’t looking I grabbed a second piece of bread. That should stop the growling in my belly for a while.

My belly. I reached down and touched the area just below my belly button. There was something in there. I tried not to think about it, but there it was. I couldn’t hide from this forever. I either had to figure out a way to raise a child, or figure out a way to raise money to end it before it really began.

I never thought of myself as the abortion type. Not that there is a type, really. I just thought that I would value the sacred importance of the fact that life had been created inside me. But I also always assumed that I would be in a long-term relationship with someone I loved when I got pregnant, not alone in the city with the child of a one-night stand with a guy whose name I either didn’t know or couldn’t remember. It never even occurred to me that things could work out this way. Now I suddenly understood what all of those women had been talking about. And for as much as I was glad to have the choice, I hated the fact that I had to make this decision. It was no one’s fault but my own, and I had to take the responsibility. God, all the drugs that I take for my fucked-up brain. They can't be good for it.

I wondered why I hadn’t known that I was pregnant. I hadn’t been sick. I hadn’t felt much different than I normally did. My period had never been regular, so its absence didn’t set off any alarms. In fact, it hadn’t even occurred to me that it hadn’t come. You never want to be the last to know about these things, and there I was, just as shocked as anyone in the ER that day. So there you have it, the course of my life decided by a printout from a computer with a positive result. What does it know? It’s not like the computer knows anything about me. How can I let its answers dictate my life? I felt so self-righteous and indignant, as though the computer were passing judgment rather than just reporting the facts.

I checked my watch and realized it was time to head back to the box. The warm sun on my face felt good, in spite of the cold wind that swept across the lot and left my ears and cheeks red. I returned to my perch at the info desk and stared forlornly at the clock on the wall, wishing that it was closer to 6:00 than 2:00.

”Excuse me,” a voice said from beside me. “Do you have any books about the Marines?”

I turned to him with a weary smile and forced my best retail voice. “Sure we do,” I said with artificial cheeriness. “Let’s see what the computer has to say. Computers know everything. They can change your life, you know.”